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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23980285">A Note That Kills</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianlawliets/pseuds/lesbianlawliets'>lesbianlawliets</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Death Note &amp; Related Fandoms, Death Note (Live Action TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Light Is Not Kira, Alternate Universe - Todome No Kiss, Host Clubs, L and Light work in a host club and solve the Kira case together, LGBT characters, M/M, Neurodiversity, Shinigami Deals, Time Travel, and maybe fall in love., autistic characters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:21:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,890</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23980285</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianlawliets/pseuds/lesbianlawliets</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>L "Eight" Lawliet is a host at Narcissus, a popular Tokyo club. When his coworker dies mysteriously, he's replaced by new hire Yagami Light.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>L/Yagami Light</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. prologue: battle cry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fanfiction is a crossover of the Death Note 2015 Live Action TV Drama and the j-drama Todome No Kiss/Kiss That Kills. It is the characters and plot of Death Note set into the world of Todome No Kiss-- you do not need to know anything about Todome No Kiss to understand this fanfiction.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>PROLOGUE</b> <b><br/></b></p><p>
  <b>“battle cry”</b>
</p><p><b>trigger warnings: </b> mentions of parent death, paranoia-inducing descriptions (being followed/stalked), attempted sexual assault, rape mention, blood.</p><hr/><p>"we are not free until all of us are free<br/>so love your neighbor, please treat her kindly<br/>ask her story and then shut up and listen<br/>black, asian, poor, wealthy, trans, cis, muslim, christian <br/>listen, listen and then yell at the top of your lungs<br/><b>be a voice for all those who have prisoner tongues<br/></b>for the people who had to grow up way too young<br/><b>there is work to be done<br/></b><b>there are songs to be sung<br/></b><b>Lord knows there's a war to be won."</b></p><p>("A Story Like Mine" — poem by Halsey, performed at the 2018 Women's March)</p><hr/><p>The first time Misa is ever afraid for her life is the night her parents are murdered.</p><p>That’s a given. </p><p>There were other times of course, but to a much lesser degree: the time she rode a rollercoaster with her friends or the first time she ever performed for an audience (it was a junior high talent show, and her father brought her roses). However, very few of Misa’s experiences can be categorized as being afraid for her safety, afraid that she might not see the next morning. Her childhood and all of her teenage years were idyllic up until the night of the murder. </p><p>The second time Misa is ever afraid for her life, she is walking home from a dirty little concert venue in Kabukicho. She’s wearing leggings and a big t-shirt, having packed them to wear for the walk home after sweating all over the stage. There’s a host club called Narcissus coming up on her left, and there’s a man about her age sitting on the steps, smoking a cigarette that reeks of menthol. He’s dressed all in black, save for a red tie that’s undone and hanging around his neck loosely. Politely, she stares at her phone until she passes, so as not to bother him. He probably works there, she reasons. He’s probably taking a break. </p><p>The concert went well, she thinks— even if it was smaller than her manager said it would be, she still had fun. Her group mates sang their hearts out, for once matching Misa’s energy and giving the crowd a performance worthy of paying two thousand yen as an entrance fee to the venue. She’s in a good mood, still riding the rush of performing. Her fingers are still a little shaky, but she feels for the first time that perhaps they could <em> make it. </em><br/><br/>It isn’t until she’s nearly reached the train station that Misa realizes she’s being followed.<br/><br/>Misa hadn’t noticed at first, didn’t realize there was someone behind her on the street until she turned a corner and heard the footsteps for the first time. The streets are quiet, this late on a Monday. They couldn’t get a good time slot at the venue, like a Friday or Saturday night, but figured a weeknight was better than no nights. </p><p>A pit is forming in her stomach. It’s instinct; women have to adapt to detect situations where someone might try something, although it’s never happened to her before. Misa has heard the stories. Everyone knows someone who was assaulted, or knows someone who knows someone, or is someone. </p><p>She sends a text to her group mates' group chat:<br/><br/><em> Still walking to the train station. If I don’t text you guys in ten minutes, can you call me? </em> <em><br/></em> <em><br/></em> Mako is the first to reply: <em> ofc . let us know when u get there safe </em></p><p>Now there’s a trail. She feels a little bit better, knowing that her friends know where she is. Even so, she digs her house keys out of her pocket as she walks and daintily slides her hand into a brass knuckles keychain. It’s pink and metallic, shaped like cat ears. All three of her groupmates have matching ones. Mako has green, and Serina has purple. </p><p>She is two blocks away from the station, so close to being in a place with surveillance and other people that could help her or hide her or witness, when a pair of hands grab her from behind. Misa has about two seconds to gasp and register what’s happening as she’s pulled backwards into an alley.  </p><p><em> there’s hands on her wrists / he’s so much bigger than she is / there’s a hand over her mouth </em>—</p><p>Misa opens her mouth and sinks her teeth into the flesh of his palm. He swears as he removes the hand from her face, calls her a <em> fucking bitch, </em>and uses the same hand to take a fistful of her hair. He says something about the color, bottle blonde, all of it twisted up into perfectly-messy space buns. She made sure to get her roots done before the show tonight. She didn’t want to leave the impression that she didn’t care enough. </p><p>While his hand is in her hair, she spits in his face. She has a free hand, so she uses it to smash the painted-pink brass keychain into the man’s cheekbone. She can’t hear anything anymore, her heartbeat pounding too loudly in her ears.</p><p>He hits her back. His fist connects with the delicate bones around her eye, and suddenly she’s on the ground. She can’t see out of her eye. Her face feels wet. </p><p>Is that blood? </p><p>Dazed, Misa rolls onto her back and hoists her legs to her chest, kicking out at him as he bends over her. Her vision is distorted, her face feels hot and her throat is getting raw.</p><p>Is she going to die? Or worse? </p><p>He’s still trying to stop her from kicking him in the gut when his face contorts. He chokes and some of his spit lands on her cheeks. Disgusted, she starts wiping at her face, and she has time to do so because he’s stopped attacking her. The man who was just trying to restrain her and pin her down is gasping for air, clutching at his chest. She doesn’t understand what’s happening until he’s collapsed, and when she realizes that she can escape, she does: Misa stands on weak legs and staggers into the nearest restaurant. </p><p>What happens next is fuzzy. The restaurant isn’t busy; there’s a few scattered customers in the diner, and there’s waitresses standing idly at the bar. Someone sees her, eventually, wavering in the doorway, blood still leaking from the injury to her face. Misa is surrounded by other girls, soft hands helping her to sit down, soothing voices asking questions. Someone calls the police. Distantly, Misa hears her ringtone going off. Misa doesn’t remember what happens after that. </p><p>She ends up sitting on a bed in the emergency room. A policewoman who identifies herself as Himura assures Misa that they’ve found the man who attacked her. Misa chooses to go home that night instead of staying overnight at the hospital. She looks in the mirror and pokes at the two stitches hidden in her left eyebrow. The skin broke there when he hit her. A nurse had cleaned her up and given her fresh clothing to wear, and this is what Misa goes to bed in. </p><p>Misa finds out the next day that her assailant is dead. He died there, in the alley, choking and writhing. This does not make her feel better.</p><p>Three days later, it happens again.</p><p>Not to her. She isn’t so unlucky. Misa hasn’t left her house yet, and her manager is not happy about it, but she doesn’t really care. Mako and Serina bring her fast food and sit with her. They take turns braiding their hair. Serina is painting Misa’s toes with a cherry-red polish when Mako turns on the TV. An older reporter, a man with a thick black beard, is graphically describing the rape of some other girl. She is recovering well in the hospital with no critical injuries, the reporter says. No critical injuries? What a fucking joke, Misa thinks. The rapist has been identified. Misa hears his name echo around inside her skull. Did he know her assailant? They worked at the same club. </p><p>When Mako and Serina leave, Misa waves goodbye to them from the doorway of her apartment. She shuts the door quietly and turns around.</p><p>The sight before her makes her suck in a gasp. </p><p>There’s an ugly creature looming above her. Its boot-clad feet do not touch the ground, hovering above it by a few inches. She covers her mouth, holding back a scream as she takes all of it in: nearly ten feet tall, at least, covered in black and spikes and feathers. Unblinking yellow eyes bore into her as its mouth creaks open like a rusty hinge. </p><p>“Yo.” </p><p>Misa falls to the floor, flat on her ass. She presses her back into the door, trying to scoot backwards. </p><p>“What— what’s happening?” she asks.</p><p>“Amane Misa,” it croaks, mouth pulled back into a smile of all teeth. It says her name in little staccato notes: <em> A-ma-ne Mi-sa. </em>“I’m Ryuk.”</p><p>Misa trembles on the floor. It cackles. </p><p>“Are you afraid?” it asks. “Do you know what I am?”</p><p>“A ghost?” she guesses. Her voice is small. </p><p>“I’m a Shinigami. I’m here to give you something,” it informs. It lifts a black appendage that looks like a hand. It looks like its arms are made of some kind of cloth, going from its clawed fingertips all the way to his shoulders, underneath feathers. She can’t see where the cloth ends, only that it seems to be stapled or stitched around its neckline. While she’s trying to make sense of what she’s seeing in front of her, the apparition digs into a bag attached to its side and reveals a black object. It drops the thing gracelessly onto the ground. Misa flinches. </p><p>“What is that?” she whispers, staring at it. It’s a black notebook, English words scrawled in white on the cover. It’s smaller than the kind she used to take notes on in high school. </p><p>“It’s for you,” it informs. “There was a Shinigami who wanted you to have it after he saved your life with it. Gelus.”<br/><br/>“Saved my life?” Misa asks, staring up at the Shinigami. It called itself Ryuk, she remembers. Do all Shinigami have names? </p><p>She picks up the notebook. </p><p>“Gelus saw what happened to you. I watched the whole thing. He died for you,” Ryuk says, “so that you could live. He would have wanted you to take this.”</p><p>“What is it?” she repeats, opening the book. There’s handwriting inside, all in a strange script she doesn’t recognize. She flips to the first page, skimming it. “I don’t speak English. What does all of this say?”</p><p>Ryuk raises a clawed finger. “If you write a human’s name in that notebook, that person will die.” </p><p>Misa’s head jerks back up to look at him. “No way,” she says nervously. </p><p>“Do you want to prove it?” Ryuk challenges. “It’s easy. All you have to do is write a name and imagine a face.” </p><p>Misa returns her gaze to the book. </p><p>“Do you have someone you want gone?” Ryuk asks. </p><p>She does. </p><p>His name is Ippei Toki, and he is the man who raped the other victim in Kabukicho.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hello ! i am starting this fic from scratch after the first draft no longer was what i'd originally intended. the original draft is still available on my profile. if you liked reading, please don't forget to leave kudos or write a comment to tell me what you liked! i appreciate it a bunch. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. eros and apollo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>CHAPTER ONE</b>
  <b>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>“eros and apollo” </b>
  <b>
    <br/>
  </b>
  <b>trigger warnings:</b>
  <span> sexual assault mention, alcohol, possible disordered eating (accidental), eye trauma (fist fight), unsanitary, suicide mention</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <b>note: </b>
  <span>from this point forward, the fic will include depictions of host clubs, a form of sex work. there will also be implications of prostitution. please proceed with caution.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <b></b>
  <span>"</span>
  <b>there's a boy who is so wonderful</b>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>that girls who see him cannot find back home</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>and the gigolos run like spiders when he comes</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>cause </span>
  <b>he's eros and he's apollo</b>
  <span> . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>but every night they fall like dominoes</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <b>how he does it, only heaven knows.</b>
  <span>"<br/></span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>("Eros and Apollo" by Studio Killers)</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>There’s a dull little studio apartment nestled deep in the center of Kabukicho. It’s four hundred square feet, only slightly big enough for one person, but L doesn’t mind: that’s all the space he needs. He sits in the dark, laptop resting in his lap. His curtains block the sunlight from filtering in, but the room is aglow with the blue light of the television. L likes to keep it on for background noise most of the time. This afternoon, he’s listening to the news.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>a woman and child found murdered in their suburban household / local man missing / young idol begins campaign against sexual assault in Tokyo.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone vibrates somewhere on the floor. L glances in the direction of the buzzing with something a little less than irritation. He stretches to blindly search for the offending device with his fingertips, closing his hand around it and squinting at the screen. It's from Roger, reminding him of his reservations and a weekly scheduled date of his.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L fires off a noncommittal response and then stands. He takes his thick-framed black glasses off, setting them delicately beside his laptop and a book, open and overturned on the table. In about twenty minutes, he’s polished himself up quite nicely; he’s put a brush through his dark waves of hair, changed out of the dingy white sweater and worn gray joggers, and brushed his teeth. He gives a longing look to his fish tank, glowing neon. Two jellyfish float inside.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The walk to the club is short. L has memorized the number of steps it takes to get there in multiples of seven. He walks and lets his mind wander as he counts. Like a perpetual motion machine, his thoughts circle around— the rent and utilities are due this week, has he paid the internet bill yet? Has he confirmed his standing appointments at the club? Is there anything he’s forgotten? L makes a mental note to have his groceries delivered soon; he’s been living off of caffeine and diet supplements.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L enters Club Narcissus from the back, through the employee entrance, avoiding the gaze of customers eager to sink their teeth into him. L pushes the thick red curtain aside, skin bristling at the velvety fabric as he steps into the locker room. It’s bright in here, fluorescent lights that irritate his eyes. Two other hosts are chattering excitedly about a tip one just received. If L were the type to roll his eyes, he would.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His locker is locked twice: once with a combination lock, and then there’s an added padlock for extra security. He twists the dial to the correct combination and unlocks the second with a little silver key he procures from his pocket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L shrugs off his heavy winter coat and hangs it up; his locker is one of the larger ones. He earned it after sticking around the job for a year. He checks his reflection in a tiny mirror stuck to the inside of the door, checking for anything unsightly. His cheeks are dotted with birthmarks like constellations. One of the other hosts complains about an oily skin issue from the other side of the locker room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tuning them out, L fixes a few flyaways before he finally sets out into the main entertainment room. Tonight he’s wearing a wine red silk button-up, top three buttons undone. He dresses a little more promiscuous than his coworkers, and his efforts pay off like always: all eyes on him. L keeps walking despite the familiar prickle of watching eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inside the main room of the club, there are several restaurant-style tables set up along three of the walls and the windows. Each is draped with a pristine white tablecloth and decorated with a vase of roses. The tables are just far apart from one another to be intimate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s also a dance floor in the heart of the room, divided into both an area for dancing and a sitting area on the left side. The couches are large red half-circles, side by side. One couch is busy with hosts already working, enchanting six young ladies. The other is empty, waiting for L and his bachelorette party. L crosses the black-tiled floor, meaning to stop at the bar for the first time tonight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eight!” a voice calls from L’s left.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From here, his performance begins. L smiles crookedly at his manager.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Roger,” he says, by way of greeting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The lovely Miss Seiki is waiting for your usual Thursday night dinner date. Table seven.” Roger informs. “The bachelorette party should be here at eleven.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L’s eyes scan the floor of people curiously. “And I’m working alone tonight.” It isn’t a question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger wrings his hands. L wants to sigh. “You’ll be working with our newest employee—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Absolutely not,” L cuts him off immediately, crossing his arms. The silky sleeves of his shirt billow about when he moves his arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger gives L a nervous, twitchy smile. His forehead is beginning to sweat, like it always does when he talks to L. It’s repulsive. “He’s very talented. Unfortunately, since Ippei quit, you will just have to deal with it. His name is Yagami, but the ladies have already taken to calling him by his given name, Light.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Light,” L repeats, letting it roll off his tongue like an insult, or a curse. “Peculiar.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, it’s a very interesting name.” Roger coughs into his hand, an action that has L cringing. “Seiki is waiting, Eight. Don’t dawdle.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L scoffs and stalks off to the bar first. He downs a shot that’s already sitting there waiting for him, vodka and peach schnapps. He throws his head back as he swallows it all at once, letting the burn trickle down his throat and into his chest like a slow-moving fire. And then, he’s off— he waves a friendly, smiling hello to a few other hosts and their customers who recognize him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Eight,</span>
  </em>
  <span> they say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>we need to see each other again soon!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L’s first customer of the night is sitting at her usual table by one of the large windows, legs crossed and hands folded primly in her lap. Once she spots him approaching, her face lights up with joy. She stands to greet him. He makes sure he fiddles with his watch as he steps over to her, so she sees he’s wearing it. It’s a gift, a Michael Kors studded with tiny diamonds beneath the glass. She’d given it to him after he’d visited her estate for a house call. L has six more watches like it at home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L smiles warmly back at her and gives her a tight hug.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Miss Seiki,” L murmurs into her ear. She laughs and presses her hand flat to his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you to call me Haruka, Eight,” she reminds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. Right, I’m just not used to it yet,” L reassures.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So polite,” she approves, waiting for L to pull out her chair before sitting in it. L sits across from her as their waiter stops at their table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are we having tonight?” the waiter asks. He’s wearing a uniform, a long-sleeved black button-up and black slacks with a red tie. Unlike the waiters, hosts dress as they like.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cristal, please,” Haruka says. L perks up and beams at her, lifting his hand to take hers across the table. One of their most expensive wines, and that was just what they were starting with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When it’s nearly eleven and Haruka has purchased a second bottle of Cristal, L decides it’s about time to send her home. He has a bachelorette party to entertain, and he still needs to find the new employee. He hasn’t even met this Light Yagami yet, and he’s expected to share all of his tips from the party with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re halfway through the bottle and L guzzles his glass down as quickly as he can without his date noticing that he’s rushing her. He helps her slide her coat on before giving her a kiss on the cheek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Take care, Haruka,” L says. “It’s very cold tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Haruka flushes demurely, mumbling an Eight, and L walks her to the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fantastic. Right on time, as usual,” Roger says, suddenly invading L’s personal space. L takes two abrupt steps back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where is Yagami?” L asks, not in the mood to play along with the charade that they are on good terms. Roger is a con man who owns a host club. L is just one of the many hosts he turns out like tricks, and this makes L seethe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Light is—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L spots a light-haired man across the dance floor. He’s maybe a few inches or so shorter than L himself, wearing a pristine white shirt and neatly-pressed vest over it. L can see why he’s chosen such a tight item of clothing; his figure is the kind that’s effortlessly perfect.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that him?” L points, not so subtly. “He’s not so impressive. You have dull taste in men, Roger.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The women love him, Eight, and that’s what’s important.” Roger replies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose it’s time we introduce ourselves?” It isn’t a question, not really, and if Roger answers L doesn’t hear him. He’s already making his way across the shiny black tile. L can see his own reflection in it as he walks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yagami is having a conversation with a customer, which is unfortunate because L interrupts without hesitation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yagami Light?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eight!” his customer, a frequent visitor, waves at him. “I was just telling Light how wonderful this club is. He’s going to have a great time working here! All of you always seem to be having a good time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s their job</span>
  </em>
  <span>, L wants to snap at her. He doesn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Narcissus is an interesting place to work,” L allows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re Eight,” Yagami Light says, cleverly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am.” L glances Light over head to toe, sizing him up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can just call me Light,” he says, extending a hand for L to shake. L stares at him owlishly, not returning the gesture, and after a few uncomfortable seconds Light lowers his arm to his side again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How do you write it?” L inquires.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Light shakes his head, as if ridding himself of the awkward moment. “You use the kanji for ‘moon’, but it’s read as Light.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Odd,” L says, without elaborating any further on the statement. Light frowns.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, we’re working that bachelorette party together tonight.” Light changes the subject.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm.” L nods, suddenly looking much more interested. He looks at Light with a wide-eyed stare, almost unblinking. “Just how long has Light been doing this field of work? I am rather excellent at what I do, and I’d hate to lose profit because I was paired up with the new guy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Light’s frown simmers into a glare. “Long enough. I used to work at another club.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see.” The fact that Light doesn’t mention which club has L thinking he’s lying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Light looks ready to snap at him, but before they can get out their claws and truly argue, six women enter the club. They’re all wearing matching pink t-shirts, bedazzled with their positions in the bridal party: maid of honor, bridesmaid, bride. They chatter to each other excitedly in English.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L begins his way towards them, stepping across the dance floor— one two three four five six seven steps.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good evening, ladies.” L says in flawless English. He hardly has an accent. “You can call me Eight. What are your names?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The women introduce themselves before Light even has the chance to catch up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello,” one of the women smiles bashfully at Light as he strides up behind L. She’s the bride-to-be, hair pinned up underneath a gauzy white hairpiece that’s meant to look like a veil.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello,” Light says in English. He holds out a hand. “My name is Light.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The girls are charmed by Light’s more obvious accent; they’re obviously enamored with the “exotic” aspect of being in Japan. L wonders if they’re American. L wants to scowl.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L doesn’t hesitate to stake his claim over half the bridesmaids. He wraps an arm around one and takes the hand of another, leading them to the empty couch reserved for them. All of the ladies order margaritas, and after that it’s much easier to ply them. The bride purchases a cheap bottle of wine, and when L hears her order his gaze flits to Light’s. His charming expression has fallen slightly as he realizes he’s chosen the wrong woman to focus his attention on. L feels a smug satisfaction when two of his bridesmaids order a moderately-priced bottle of champagne each. As long as Light stuck to his half of the women and L stuck to his, L would not lose any of his profit for the night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the ladies call a cab, it’s well past two in the morning. L wishes all of them a wonderful vacation and the bride a beautiful wedding before they stumble out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of the younger hosts whoops as the last of the guests leave and Roger locks the door behind them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s get out of here!” he exclaims. Light nods wearily, looking tired.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Roger.” L says expectantly. “My money.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a demand rather than a request, and Roger sighs and opens the register. L has earned twice as much as the second-highest earning host. He doesn’t stick around to gloat, however, taking his cash and heading to the locker room. Light scoffs loudly, in disbelief.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As L pulls open his combination lock, the heavy red velvet curtain is shoved aside. It’s Light, looking irate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The polite thing to do when splitting a party like that is to share the tips evenly.” Light states.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps if Light was better at his job, he wouldn’t be so bitter about my money.” L drawls, and this has Light glowering. The light-haired man trudges towards his own locker.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re incredibly rude.” Light says, clearly not pleased with L’s answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t share my tips.” L shrugs. “Roger should have warned you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of the other hosts, one who has been around more or less the same amount of time as L, grins and slaps Light on the back. “Good work, Yagami. Most of us don’t even bother working with Eight. The only one he ever got along with was Ippei, he’s too stubborn.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not stubborn,” L snaps grouchily. “I just don’t settle. You all should be doing the same.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This sparks an uproar of laughter, which L ignores as he slides on his winter coat. It’s nice, a Canada Goose parka plump with goose down feathers. L adjusts the watch on his wrist like it bothers him to wear it before taking it off completely and shoving it into his pocket. He shoulders past Light Yagami as if he isn’t even there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nighttime is bitter and cold, despite the lack of snow on the ground. When L looks up at the deep gray sky, the clouds are swollen and look prepared to burst at any moment. L walks the fifteen minutes back to his flat, bundled up tight in his coat, zipped all the way up to his chin. His hand trembles slightly as he unlocks the door. He’ll remember his gloves tomorrow night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He changes first, finding solace in the same dirty white sweater and gray joggers he’d shed earlier today. In the bathroom, he takes out his contact lenses and puts his glasses on. He sighs in relief. Before he does anything else, he feeds his jellyfish. He watches the neon jellies float around near the top of the tank for a few moments.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reaches into his coat pocket and retrieves his earnings for tonight: a ¥5600 gift card to Nordstrom from Miss Seiki (a little thank you payment for the last time he visited her estate) and almost ¥34000 in cash. It isn’t his best work, but it’s only Thursday night. Tomorrow will be better. He unlocks the safe stored on the bookshelf along the wall, gingerly placing the cash and gift card inside before locking it up again. He hides the key underneath the jellyfish food container.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L organizes his bills next; he transfers the money necessary for his rent and utilities and then wires ¥56000 to his adoptive father’s bank account. Distractedly, he wonders what the man has been doing with the fourth of L’s income he sends every month. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to sleep half-heartedly, but ends up examining his studio. The television is on for background noise, and it saturates everything a deep blue tint. The room is dark, the sun unable to disturb him through his blackout curtains. This morning there’s a film noir playing, a mystery. L listens to it absently from his futon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You don’t want the truth. You make up your own truth! Like your police file. It was complete when I gave it to you. Who took out the 12 pages?”</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>“You,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> probably</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, it wasn’t me. See, it was you!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why would I do that?”</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>“To create a puzzle you could never solve!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The room is suddenly bathed in white light, flashing. L squints at the brightness, then sits up to reach for the remote. A brunette reporter is standing in the rain in front of a nondescript, but familiar apartment complex. She holds her earpiece to her ear as the wind blows her hair around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A tragedy in Tokyo,” she says, “a body has been found in Kabukicho, Shinjuku. Now identified as Ippei Toki, the deceased was found on his kitchen floor. Neighbors and Ippei’s employer report not seeing or hearing from Ippei for the last seven days.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>L blinks and then rips his phone off the charging cable. He dials Roger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It rings four times.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Eight?” Roger’s deep voice crackles over the phone line. “Eight, you must have heard— the police contacted me a little while after you left.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You said he quit.” L states, not bothering with a greeting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He didn’t show up to work for a week. I thought it was safe to assume he’d left.” Roger reasons. “Eight, I’m sorry, I have to go. Feel free to stay home tonight.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>L wants to say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ippei wasn’t my friend, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but the line goes dead before he can get it out. He drops his phone on the ground carelessly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L arrives at Narcissus somewhere around eleven p.m., purposely late to avoid the eyes of his fellow hosts. He goes unnoticed as he slips in through the back entrance and into the locker room. He fixes his wind-blown hair in the mirror before taking a swig from a little bottle sitting on the inner shelf of his locker. It burns as it goes down, spreading warmth from the center of his chest outwards. It melts the chill from being outside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L pushes aside the curtain, letting the velvet prickle against his skin. The club is busy tonight, as expected. Fridays are always busy. He counts his steps as he approaches the bar: one two three four five six se—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eight,” Roger calls in greeting. L barely looks in his direction.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Roger,” he mutters, continuing his trek to the bar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said to take the night off,” Roger frowns, walking beside him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You said, ‘feel free to stay home’. I wasn’t about to waste a Friday night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger huffs. “Most people would take that to mean not to come in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L waves him off irritably. The bartender sets down L’s usual shot in front of him, and he downs it in one swallow. He turns, leaning against the bar, searching for his first kill of the night. He spots a girl sitting off to the side of another host’s party, too plain to be noticed. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Hello,” L says, approaching her. His voice is honeyed and sickly-sweet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The night goes smoothly for the most part. He gets a few women to purchase a couple bottles of wine, but one reveals that she cannot afford to pay and L’s demeanor sours. He regards her with visible disgust, alerting Roger of her debt before moving on. An hour of time, wasted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eight?” Light’s voice asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Light,” L replies, not even bothering to greet Light properly or even turn around. Light has to walk around L to face him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I heard a friend of yours passed away. That’s really awful, my condolences.” Light smiles, and L guesses it’s meant to be sympathetic. L reads it as condescending.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L narrows his eyes. “Ippei was barely an acquaintance. We only worked together. No need for condolences, no matter how perfunctory.” </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perfunctory,” Light repeats, dumbfounded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. Do you need a definition? I’m rather busy.” L states, gesturing towards the woman waiting at Eight’s usual table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know what perfunctory means.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wonderful. Now, if you’ll please—” L shoulders past Light. L feels a warm hand wrap around his own wrist, pulling him back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to be so rude. I was trying to be nice.” Light scowls, gripping L’s wrist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Frankly, I don’t care </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>Light was trying to do. I’m trying to work.” L snaps, ripping his wrist away from Light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think you’re so much better than everyone else,” Light accuses. “Like you’re above the rest of us who work here. In reality, you’re kind of pathetic. Aren’t you a high school drop-out? Women talk, Eight.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L recalls what happens next in glimpses, rather than sensations. He hooks his foot around Light’s ankle, tripping him up and making him fall. Light scrambles to his feet and lunges, his fist connecting with the delicate bones around L’s left eye. L grabs at Light’s forearm and </span>
  <em>
    <span>twists, </span>
  </em>
  <span>intending to bend it in a way it isn’t meant to bend, but Roger intervenes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Light! Eight! Stop this at once!” Roger exclaims, looking horrified at the display of violence in front of his club full of customers. He pulls Light backwards by his shoulders, knowing better than to touch L.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L separates from the fight instantly, stalking off to the locker room to examine his eye injury. His face throbs; Light got quite a good punch in. It’s already swelling, from what L can tell in the big mirror along the wall in the locker room. If something’s been broken, there will be hell to pay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s still gingerly prodding the darkening bruise when both Light and Roger enter the locker room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eight,” Roger starts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Leave me be, Roger.” L warns. His tone bites and leaves Roger looking sore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve got a serious attitude problem.” Light snaps. He crosses his arms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If Light minded his business, it wouldn’t be an issue.” L states. He doesn’t listen to Light any further, shrugging on his winter coat. “Roger, I’ll be collecting my tips when I come in next.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pockets the little bottle of liquor before heading out, slamming the door behind him. The cold air greets him, and he quickly zips his coat up to protect himself from it. L heads to the drugstore on the corner first, purchasing a pint of Fireball and a prepackaged cheese danish. He eats the sweet as he walks, not letting the sticky white icing touch his fingers. It tastes like cavities, and L sucks his teeth at the sweetness. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>L doesn’t know where he’s going until he arrives at Ippei’s condominium complex. It’s a grandiose building, modern in design, although the only word that comes to mind when L appraises it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>ugly.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He dislikes the boxy shape of it, sticking out like a sore thumb on the outskirts of weathered, dirty Kabukicho. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>As L walks along the high, white-planked fence bordering the entire complex, he examines the paint. The building itself is a crisp white, although it needs a little bit of a cleaning, with deep green shutters on all of the windows. The shutters seem to be faring poorly with all of the rain they’ve experienced in the last few months since L last saw the complex— the paint is peeling back to reveal matte black metal. Of all things, the paint chipping should be the last thing on his mind, but L can’t help but pick it apart. It’s in his nature. It’s what he does best.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L reaches the gate, pausing momentarily to stare up at the complex. It’s five stories high, much smaller than L’s own apartment building, although L knows that these condos are much more expensive. He frowns as he finishes his drugstore dessert, sucking a stray bit of icing off of his thumb.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Thank you for helping me out, man,” Ippei says, grinning over his shoulder at L. He’s heaving two cardboard boxes in his arms, heavy with personal belongings and whatever else Ippei has stuffed inside. L quietly fumes, carrying a small box filled to bursting with music records. He doesn’t recall how he’d gotten roped into assisting Ippei with moving into his new apartment. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>“You owe me,” is all L offers in response.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Ippei says. He sets his boxes down and opens a keypad lock on the gate, pressing in six numbers. L watches him quietly. “I’ll PayPal you a couple bucks for your trouble. You can stay for dinner if you want, I’m probably ordering a pizza.” </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m not interested,” L says flatly. He’d prefer it if he could get this over with as quickly as possible. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then L is stepping right up to the gate, pressing in the numbers like he lives here and he isn’t trespassing by doing so. There’s a little beeping sound, and the keypad flashes green. The gate opens unceremoniously. L cracks open the pint of Fireball and takes a swig before pocketing it in his coat. The cinnamon is a shock to his taste buds after the sickly-sweet flavor of the danish. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Upon entering the gated condominium complex, L follows the sidewalk to an outdoor staircase. He quietly ascends to the third floor, banking on the fact that it’s awfully late for most people to be awake. Ippei’s condo was the first one on the left, if L recalls correctly. He does, of course. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Picking the lock isn’t difficult, and L has had a lot of practice. He slinks inside the dark condo and immediately a wretched smell assaults him: decaying flesh and garbage that never made it outside. L covers his nose and mouth with his hand, grimacing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>L examines the mostly-empty space as Ippei sets his boxes down in the corner. There’s no furniture yet, just a futon on the floor that reminds L of his own. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>“Nice, innit?” Ippei beams. “I’m so hyped. I’m gonna get all of the furniture in soon, and then I’ll probably invite some of the guys from the club to come hang out and see it. You can come, if you want.”</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>“I might,” L says, blasé. </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>L examines the space now that it’s been furnished and decorated. He never did take Ippei up on his offer to come by. Ippei’s choice of furniture is a little bit mismatched, but it looks fairly decent. A black leather sofa sits pointed at an obscenely large television, in full view of a large glass patio entrance. It’s like Ippei was asking to get robbed. There are several houseplants all over the place, hanging from the ceiling and standing tall in corners. They wilt in the dark, a monument to Ippei’s death.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The living room appears unbothered by its resident’s demise, and other than the dying houseplants, it looks like Ippei will be back at any moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L takes another glance around the living room before stepping into the kitchenette next. It’s much bigger than L’s own, which is a given considering L prefers the smaller quarters of a studio apartment to something ostentatious like Ippei’s condo. All of the appliances are new, shiny metal gleaming in the dark. What stands out, however, is an overturned stool toppled in the center of the floor. L stares at it for a moment, and then looks up at the ceiling. A noose fashioned with a thick black cord remains, hanging there like a threat. It’s been cut by police. It’s possible that with the swelling, they would have had a hard time getting the body down. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dully, L notes, it seems that there’s nothing remarkable about this suicide. There’s no indication that Ippei’s death was anything out of the ordinary, no signs of foul play or struggle. If there had been anything notable, the police would have left evidence of an investigation. This isn’t even a case, no reason to open one when there’s nothing to be found. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>What is L doing here? Why did he come? He takes a slow breath in through his mouth, still holding his nose. It reeks in here. He leaves the kitchen, spinning on a heel and making his way into the living room once more. He should probably go home. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>And that’s what L does. He slinks back out into the hallway, locking Ippei’s door from the inside before closing it behind him. He feels sick; the smell of death lingers on him. The urge to get home and take a shower is overwhelming. L heads down the stairs and avoids the gaze of a security officer that he nearly bumps into on his way out. </span>
  <span></span>
    <br/>
  
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Excuse me,” the guard says in apology, but L waves him off without a word before opening the gate and disappearing into the twisting alley beside the complex.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you for reading! please let me know if you enjoyed my work by giving kudos or leaving a comment! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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